Sullied Hereto From Untold
by ambre gris
Summary: Life and love are hard, and when put together they can become inseparable, until one is forced to be without the other. Minerva McGonagall unexpectedly falls in love and suffers the unexpected consequences. MM/Doug MM/TR Darkfic. AU. Pottermore spoilers.
1. Prologue

Author's Note: So, I'm back, and with an idea that has been eating away at me for a while now. Finally, I've put it into words that I can be happy with. Just a fair warning, this story contains spoilers for _Pottermore_ but is also pretty much AU to some major details. I'm keeping Minerva a year older than Tom for the purposes of this fic, so if you don't like timelines that are somewhat out of wack, you might want to skip this one. The rating might change, as I'm not entirely done writing each chapter, and the story does quite a bit of time traveling, so to speak, in order to tell the tale. I haven't tried this particular style before so I'm just going to go for it and see where it leads me. Feedback is more than welcome. As always, none of these characters belong to me, but to the lovely J.K. Rowling, who I thank for allowing me to borrow them for the time being. And now, on with the show...

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><p><em>Sullied Hereto From Untold<em>

**July 1944**

"Then what happened?" he laughed softly. Field-weary fingers plucked at her floral skirt. Fresh hay, keeping them warm, splintered in her hair and stuck in their socks, the smell thick on their senses. The barn sighed and moonlight fell slatted through its boards. It was a night to rival many nights, but nothing was more apparent to the two than the other beside them.

"All right, all right," Minerva replied, unable to keep herself from smiling. She was grateful for the darkness, though surely her face was burning brightly through it. "I don't mean to, it's just —" She waved a hand and continued, still grinning. "So we were by the water's edge, and it was simply perfect outside, beautiful dusk and all that. It really was romantic, now that I think about it. Anyway, we were there, and he had been acting so serious the whole time. I mean, he was always quite serious, from what I gathered, but by then he was nearly paralyzed! I felt terribly for him, though at the same time it was kind of silly, since I honestly had no idea what was going on. We were classmates, sure, but we'd never been particularly close. It just struck me as... strange, to say the least."

Moving on to the next part of her story, Minerva suddenly clasped his hands in hers, her head inclining fiercely. He feigned surprise and initiated a stare that neither could break away from. Even in the dim light, his eyes were luminous, the friendliest hazel she'd ever seen, and she was falling headfirst into them. Their smiles persisted as she began a dramatic quotation.

"And just like this he had me — though actually he was kneeling — and he said so passionately, like he really meant it, 'Minerva, you are so lovely I cannot bear to pass you by any longer. You triumph over the rest so gracefully, as if you are the only rose left in an unruly thicket of thorns. Your talent, your thirst for knowledge, your dark beauty... I look at you and see all of these things. I look at you and see us, side by side, forever.'" She took a breath and continued. "Now I was sitting there rather concerned, no clue what to say, and even though I knew I was in front of one of the most handsome young men in school, I couldn't bring myself to look at him. Just couldn't."

Minerva shook her head, remembering the moment with much clarity, her hands in his. She never thought she could have been so amused by an incident that she had once found rather unsettling. It was an occurrence she had kept the entirety of from even her closest friends at school, as any misleading explanation she came up with seemed easier to tell than the truth. She made lighthearted fun out of it now in order to push past the darker feelings once evoked by the memory, and because she knew the young man resting next to her was merely curious. They could walk away from one another tomorrow and he wouldn't be any the wiser.

"Minerva?" She came out of her reverie, slightly bashful but regaining her composure easily. Her companion urged her on with a small nod.

"In the end, well... I had to be honest with him. We were too different, we weren't acquainted properly, and it seemed our paths were destined to be severed instead of crossed." She shrugged nonchalantly. "Oddly enough, he seemed to want to protest when I mentioned destiny, but before he could even start — SPLASH!" She mimicked the wave with her hands, and then covered her mouth, stifling her gasps of mirth. "We were caught out after hours, but only he had gotten so wet and, oh, it was riotous. I'm horrible for laughing, I know, but it was all too _strange_ not to! Of course I threw him a towel and a joke later, though he appreciated neither. So serious, that boy. I only saw him briefly after that, but he never addressed me personally again. He won't really have the chance to now, since I've finished my schooling for good."

She stretched then, her lithe yet toned body bending almost reminiscent to that of a cat. His arm had found its way around her shoulders, though she wasn't complaining.

"You've nothing to be worried about, I don't think," he supplied. "There's no shame in telling the truth. In any case, I'm glad you're here and he's there." He beamed down at her and she nodded in agreement, dreamily disregarding the painful twist in her gut.

Everything had gone so well, from the time he'd asked to spend the day with her up until these moments in the barn, on the hay. They'd chatted amicably, as if they'd known one another for a lifetime, and Minerva found herself wondering just how they had not met earlier. Caithness was her home since birth, had watched her grow, had looked over her family for many years. It seemed that even the coincidence of existing in a "small world" had passed them by until this particular point in time, when convenience was not currently in her favor.

"Thanks for the ear, I'm sure it's completely vanished by now," she mentioned quietly after a few minutes' comfortable silence. With half-lidded eyes she looked up to him and he pulled a blanket across their forms, covering them in gentle, sleepy bliss.

"Nonsense. And any time, my _lovely_ Minerva," he said, receiving a playful swat in return. Their laughter filled the barn and then quieted, the decrescendo the most beautiful she'd ever heard. They gazed at each other for a moment, as if sleep would cause them to forget all that had taken place, and were then contented enough to settle in. Simultaneous, smitten goodnights were issued, and they drifted off face to face in the arms of a peaceful summer night. She curled up at his side as he laid a hand at her elbow, a sweet reminder that she was not alone.


	2. The First

Author's Note: Thanks for the reads and reviews! Here's chapter two, with a little bit of TR insight. All previous disclaimers apply.

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><p><strong>1938-1939<strong>

Tom Riddle's was a life doomed from the beginning, even as it received near-divine intervention early on from a magical man with auburn hair and a school for such people named after blemishes found on a hog.

Albus Dumbledore had plucked him from the dire straits of his orphanage home and delivered him to the ornate doorstep of the castle that promised to make his old life a very distant thing of the past. The sky-eyed professor saw potential in him, despite the dark lingerings of the boy's troubling early years and misdirected social behavior. Dumbledore's intentions for young Tom were nothing short of good, and although the fledgling wizard had his own ideas, he could not help but want to follow this man and the power he so obviously held.

His first year was something of a wash, blurry at best, though he would never deny having enjoyed it all the same. Tom was enamored with the school from the start. He fell for not only its architectural wonders, but also the flow of special energy he could feel emanating from the place. Instantly he was swept into its stream and carried along by the comforting embrace of what could only be described as pure, real magic. It took him to Slytherin House, where he fit in easily and made allies with even the oldest serpent students. He was the top of his class that first year, a shining example to others, a rising star in the eyes of his professors.

He spent his first Christmas at the castle joyfully, complacent among the ghosts, an empty library wing, and House Elves that kept him well fed. In fact, Tom relished every minute of it: dining alone and in silence in the Great Hall, watching the snow fall uninterrupted, quietly celebrating his birthday on New Years Eve, catching up on all sorts of unassigned reading and studying with no obligation to share his findings with anyone else. Although he received no parcels that year, he considered Hogwarts to be a gift in and of itself. Finally, there was a place he could truly call home.

Then summer came and sent him back to the orphanage he hated, which fully ignited an underlying disdain for Dumbledore that he'd cultivated throughout the year. He could not trust a man who insulted him by taking him from rags to riches and back again. He could not follow a man who underestimated him after a term's worth of dedicated work and due diligence in harnessing his growing abilities. And he would not listen to a man who was, in Tom's eyes, clearly prejudiced against him and the rest of Slytherin House.

Dumbledore may have lead him to Hogwarts, but Tom gave the old wizard no further credit. It would seem that they were simply destined to be opponents, forever on opposite sides of the same coin.

However, he would endure those long and dingy summers only for the sight of his magical refuge that teased him from just beyond a shimmering horizon. Forced to keep his powers under tight control, Tom languished in his prison until September, when he all but disappeared in a flurry of dying leaves and chillier weather so as to catch the train back to the world in which he rightfully belonged.

·

Fresh off the Express and waiting to be escorted inside to watch the Sorting, he saw her for the very first time, and all thought of Hogwarts and Dumbledore and certain darkness left him as he took her in.

She was pale and raven-haired, with hands that appeared to be deft yet deliberate, and eyes as intense as they were green. She wore her robes particularly, carried her belongings almost lovingly, and walked with a definite sense of purpose. The extremely lit hallways dimmed in comparison to her. Portraits seemed to follow her not only in their gazes but in their painted steps. Tom was sure that doors would open for her even if they weren't bewitched to do so.

In the Great Hall, after supper was well underway, he found himself searching for her almost desperately among the throng of students, just to glimpse her a last time before bed, but was disappointed when he spotted her at the Gryffindor table.

He was too proud to approach, and she was surrounded by her friends, but suddenly she was meeting his eyes, and triumphantly he stared back. She smiled toward him briefly, though it was genuinely friendly in nature. Tom didn't return the gesture but instead studied her as quickly as he could before she moved to turn around and get back to her chattering housemates. They were obnoxious, loud, and quite rude from what he'd observed (and been supplied with by his fellow Slytherins), but she sat quietly and politely among them, tame and sure of herself, requiring no extra attention although it was heaped upon her.

It was a shame for her that she hadn't been sorted into his House, he thought, and an even bigger shame for him. If she was anything like her fellow Gryffindors, he couldn't immediately tell from her demeanor, which confounded him a little since he hardly had trouble reading others. Already he knew she was different, and already he was determined to find out why.

Tom sighed, ignoring the food that had grown cold in the wake of his watchings. He'd said barely a word to his mates most of the night and found no reason to pay them any mind now. The darkness began to return to him as she, whoever she was, disappeared from view in the flood of students heading to bed. A dreadful shame, indeed.


	3. The Second

Author's Note: Merry (late) Christmas and happy holidays everyone! It was a good one for me and I hope it was a good one for you. All previous disclaimers apply. If you're still reading past this point, please enjoy! :)

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><p><strong>June 1944<strong>

Situated atop a large hill, just on the outskirts of a small village in the Scottish Highlands, the McGonagall manse stood modestly, overlooking little but a family garden and a few houses nestled in the hillside below. The house, made sturdy by stone and mortar and inviting by its warm wooden doors, was older than its inhabitants, though it hardly showed. As far as anyone knew, the McGonagalls were as normal as day was plain. Three polite children, their beautiful mother, and her dedicated, devout husband saw to that.

The mornings there were always good to Minerva. With her bedroom window facing east, light spilling happily through the glass and soaking into everything, she was one made for rising with the sun.

Her father usually woke even earlier, quietly leaving bed and stealing to the kitchen to begin the day. He would put the kettle on and wait for its boil, ensuring not to disturb the children while he prepared a cup of tea in peaceful silence. Often he took this brief time to contemplate the hours that lay ahead, his thoughts meandering along the brightening horizon, gently constructing themselves when the sights and sounds of dawn began to unfold.

He never sat thinking for too long. Robert McGonagall, a man of straightforward intent and simple tastes, hardly considered plan-making a skill particular to himself. He left most of that to the Lord, among other things.

Eventually, young Minerva became an addition to this routine, drifting downstairs to share an early tea time with her father while the rest of the house remained under the spell of sleep. They talked little, instead deferring to the comfortable, wordless air they were able to maintain while sipping their tea in tranquility.

In these moments, bathed in the honest light of the morning, Minerva grew considerably alongside her father as the days passed. She was magical and he was not, but this one glaring distinction could not stop her from taking after him more than anyone ever expected. Soon there were two fair, steadfast yet stubborn, equally passionate McGonagalls seated in the kitchen each morn, speaking silently, building a father-daughter relationship confidently against all the magical and non-magical odds bearing down upon them.

At Hogwarts, Minerva stayed true to her upbringing, often cozied up next to a window in Gryffindor Tower, observing the sun's ascent long before her classmates were risen. Years later she would find herself repeating these mornings, many of them becoming a humbling remembrance for the Muggle man who had so selflessly passed on the best of himself to her.

When she returned for one last summer romp before beginning the rest of her life in faraway London, Minerva was certain she had surprised her father that quiet, first morning, appearing at his side as she always had, pouring herself some tea and staring out at the twilit backyard expanse. Robert settled in across from his daughter, raised brow replaced by a more knowing look.

"Welcome home," he said, drawing Minerva from her thoughts and causing her to notice the hand he had extended to cover her own. And then he smiled warmly at her, his aging eyes softening in a way that told her he was proud, though she knew he wouldn't say it in so many words.

"Good to be home," she replied, smiling back and committing the moment to memory. The sun was up now, illuminating the kitchen and stirring the chickens outside. Minerva, ever privvy to these sounds, received a nod from her father and stood, resisting the urge to pull out her wand to Transfigure her robed nightclothes into appropriate daytime attire. Old habits died hard, but she was not opposed to utilizing her two perfectly good, working hands.

After cleaning up, Minerva left the kitchen to ready herself for the day. Getting to her room meant passing her parents', and today she saw the door ajar and her mother within, sleepy but awake, perched on the side of the bed. Her soft, flawless face was turned to the right, toward a small nightstand with a single drawer. There was a longing in her gaze that was soon replaced by impassiveness as she tiredly began to undress with hands that obviously ached to use magic once more. Minerva recognized this sorrow and, heart slightly sunk, continued down the hall to her room.

Solemnly, the young witch made her way past the closed doors of her slumbering brothers and through her own. Every surface glowed as though polished fresh, and this sight invigorated Minerva, who opened her wardrobe to reveal Muggle clothes she hadn't seen for nearly a year. Aside from what she'd taken to school, everything was in its place just as she had left it, just as she preferred.

Pulling out a simple blue dress and a white top, she slid into the garments and adorned herself with long socks and shoes that had seen better days outside rather than in. She wound her long black hair into a tight bun at the crown of her head to avoid any mishaps and quickly, manually, trimmed her nails. By now she could smell breakfast cooking downstairs, which meant her brothers would be up soon. Her mother and father's low voices mingled in the air and it eased her racing thoughts, if only for a moment, to hear them.

Before leaving, she took one last look at herself in the wardrobe mirror. In three months, she was to take a job at the Ministry and completely immerse herself into Wizarding society. At summer's end, she would leave this home and her family behind, knowing that visits and contact were to be seldom, if at all. No longer would she be Minerva the Muggle, as she presently was. Instead, Minerva the Magic would come alive in full, potential limitless as the sky and ready to be molded at will.

She had trained hard for that day, hadn't she? Toiled in the library, burnt her fingers and worn holes in her clothes, stayed up for hours beyond reason... All for that day, when she would set foot into one world for good. To become accustomed to two lifestyles was harder still, and had taken nearly all her eighteen years. Ultimately it was tiring, and she needed to be awoken. Though she never blamed her mother or father for any choices that had been made, Minerva knew she would only understand in parts, never a whole. Now that she was mature, she had made her decision and intended to make good on it.

The magical blood in her veins pulsed wildly at the thought of finally being one with that other world. It was like a second, stronger instinct within, a driving force throughout her that was never totally quiet or at rest. To deny it seemed sickening, crushing. Suddenly flustered, she turned and hurried downstairs. How could there have been room for any other option?


	4. The Third

Author's Note: Just wanted to get something up before New Year's. Thanks for the alerts and for reading! The story is developing, I promise. :) All previous disclaimers apply.

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><p><strong>January 1942<strong>

Intermediate Charms had just ended. Students spilled into the adjacent corridor, eager for food and fire and sleep. A fifth-year Gryffindor and a fourth-year Slytherin were two of the last to emerge from the classroom, perhaps just as eager but willing to waste some daylight for the sake of conversation. Once out of the castle, they ambled across the grounds and into a rest area devoid of any other students, taking a seat side by side on a chilly stone bench. As the minutes passed, the Slytherin, Tom Riddle, seemed increasingly interested in the Gryffindor, Minerva McGonagall, while she grew ever more forlorn.

"There's no way you aren't related to someone extremely powerful. I know I've told you this before, but your conjurations — they're marvelous." His sultry voice dipped into her ear and captured her blood, ushering it into the top of her cranium and behind her eyes. This caused a feeling of queasiness to douse her, but she suppressed it with a gulp of fresh air.

"I'm just like anyone else," Minerva said, mouth twisting one direction and eyes looking the other. He was watching her in a way that made her nervous, thus she couldn't meet his gaze. It was intent and studious, as if he wanted to remember exactly what she looked like before eating her up.

Tom scowled a little at the response but didn't let it ruin his demeanor. Her modesty was quaint, though he could tell it was practiced. Many knew of her prodigious skills: her wandwork was clean, meticulous, and downright beautiful, as were her sweeps astride a broomstick high above the Quidditch pitch. Even in class, when witnessing her perform basic spells, Tom sensed Minerva's power and how it simply radiated from within. She was different because of it, and he couldn't help but gravitate toward such an immeasurable force.

"You say that now, but one day you'll be great. I'm certain of it." He sounded just enthusiastic enough to make her believe he meant it, and he looked the part too, leaning back on the bench and giving her a devilish smirk. She smiled more, though it didn't quite reach her eyes.

"You're very kind, Tom. Thank you." This short reply was punctuated by what sounded like a sigh and he knew something wasn't entirely right. Since they'd sat in the courtyard Minerva had been unusually quiet. Her hands were still and her books lay next to her, disregarded. Her words were not confident as she merely tossed them from her mouth. Though Tom often saw the personal lives of others as mundane and easily forgettable, for some very strange reason he felt compelled to ask her how she was feeling.

"The future just isn't so clear, you know?" Minerva had answered his question with another question. He pondered this for a moment. She was looking at him now, listening for his next words.

"I understand." He nodded, seemingly thoughtful, not trying too hard to intrigue her even as he could see it had worked. "And you're right. There is war everywhere threatening to destroy everything. Who knows what it might be like once we leave here." Minerva let the breath she had been holding exit her slowly. By now it was supper time and the sun was going down. The trees, still leafless in the winter air, cast long shadows over them and the ground underfoot.

"Granted, it doesn't spill over," he added eventually. There was a glint in his eye that she couldn't quite put her finger on. As if he knew something might happen. Or, perhaps, he wanted it to... Tom continued to observe her as though she were the sunset itself. Flushing slightly, she felt it best to change the subject.

"What are your plans?" Minerva saw his face change quickly at the inquiry and she thought that perhaps she'd said something wrong. He became very serious, much more so than she'd ever seen, and when he finally spoke, she felt her heart crawl into the pit of her stomach and lie there, made cold by something that yet remained unknown.

"I'm going to change the world." Any excitement he may have displayed at this was not typical. His eyes did not light up; his expression seemed close to that of a disappointed parent as opposed to a youthful student preparing for a new life. He was looking off into the sky now, as though his hardened gaze could bring the sun crashing down. "I'm going to right a lot of wrongs, Minerva. Wizards, Muggles... _people_ will be thinking differently when I've made a name for myself." After stating this, Tom searched her for approval. Minerva, less than speechless, chose not to elaborate. His zeal was admirable, even encouraging, but the darkness that swept over him at times imposed on her good conscience. She only nodded, which seemed to satisfy him.

Against her own will, the cogs of wonderment began to turn in Minerva's brain. What exactly could he mean? She was more than aware of certain Slytherin attitudes and how they tended to manifest themselves, especially in times like these. Tom had never shown her any prejudice outright, but she couldn't recall ever discussing it with him extensively. In fact, as she thought upon it more, she was unsure of what she knew and didn't know about him. He was rather private about his past, and had become even more withdrawn since they'd met the previous school year. A McGonagall was never one to pry unnecessarily, so while Minerva kept a proper distance, there was an unshakeable inkling of curiosity nestled inside her. Especially now...

"We should get going." This came from her after a time of silence between them. Minerva gathered her things and stood, missing sight of his open hand between them. Pausing but not completely put off, he slipped it into his wand pocket as he joined her in stride, their silhouettes fading with the evening light. They were taciturn again into the castle and through the corridors, walking in sync toward their destination.

When they came to a halt her spirits appeared to be lifted, and she said lightly, "Don't be such a Slytherin sometimes." If he'd had anything to say back, she didn't hear, for they had reached a very full Great Hall.

Minerva gestured her goodbye to him and made haste to the Gryffindor table. Outwardly unfazed, Tom went to sit with his housemates, some of whom were glancing concernedly or disapprovingly his way. Idiots, he thought. No one could ever learn to mind their own business. Her friendly chastisement came back to him just then and he smirked. If anything, Tom Riddle wasn't nearly as nosy as his fellow Slytherins, that much was for sure.

Still, he continued to feel puzzled over her vague explanation to his expressed concern. He was not accustomed to evasiveness, most especially from females, and decided he would get to the root of it later. Tom then shook his head at himself, feeling rather vile in his realization that he cared more than he should. Whatever she might tell him, it was most likely trivial and silly in nature, forcing him to regret asking in the first place. Ridiculous. Like it would matter in the end anyway.


	5. The Fourth

Author's Note: Happy 2012! I will admit now that this chapter was the most difficult for me to write so far. I don't come from a religious background, so it's interesting for me to write about something I haven't experienced firsthand. Hopefully I did an acceptable job. I would also just like to say that whether you're loving or hating this story so far, please drop me a line? I know I am not the best reviewer/responder by far, and that is something I'm working on, but I would also like to gauge my own audience, if there is one. Anyway, thanks for reading and on with the fic! :) All previously stated disclaimers apply.

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><p><strong>1944<strong>

If anyone could pick a perfect day for going to market, it was Isobel McGonagall. One could say she had somewhat of an unfair advantage, for she'd had years and many trips to hone her predictions. She had taken to reading Muggle almanacs, and knew the growing seasons and their yields, as well as the weather that accompanied them. There was no magic involved; just keen observation and extremely good timing. It could almost be classified as a hobby, if it wasn't so detrimental to the health and happiness of her family. As it were, Isobel had a knack for it, and she didn't feel bad for being a little proud.

Of course, even her most accurate forecasts were not guaranteed. Isobel was no Seer, of either the Wizarding or Muggle variety. To herself she sometimes attributed her attuned senses to the magical properties within, and while this was probable, she gave most of the credit to sheer luck. Whatever the case, she welcomed the hits and was accepting of the inevitable misses.

But while market days were ultimately unpredictable, church was a constant. Every Sunday, rain or shine, it was something the whole family could attend, unlike Isobel's weekly forays into the village. The reverend's wife was grateful for the presence of the church and its services, and for the fact that if any accidents had ever happened there, they were miniscule or entirely unnoticeable. The same couldn't always be said for the McGonagall household, so any source of calm for the children's flourishing abilities was always savored.

And although Robert and Isobel encouraged participation, they knew, sooner or later, that the children would have to be left to their own devices. Now, this was rather out of the ordinary for a reverend and his family, whom he was supposed to be leading in God's way, but the situation remedied itself when their young ones became school-aged and received their Hogwarts letters one by one.

When this time arrived, the McGonagalls would tell friends and neighbors that they had been sent to an institution some ways away, where their religious education would be furthered under more supervised circumstances. It was then that they were provided some relief from the scrutiny of a tiny Muggle village that relied on Robert and his good guidance. It was then, finally, that they could allow their children to take flight into a world suited for them, in which they would learn and grow and live out their wildest of dreams.

·

Minerva had already been home for a fortnight when, on the last Sunday in June, she woke early with a particular goal in mind for the morning. As Malcolm and Robert Jr. slept like bricks soundly nestled into their beds, she dressed appropriately and met her parents downstairs, who regarded her curiously but gave away nothing else. All Minerva could do was nod her greeting, as she felt strange, but not in a strange way. There was an elation building in her, as if she knew that whatever happened that day could be nothing short of good.

The sun was barely up when they left the manse, and all was quiet as they walked, their steps whispering against the ground. Arm in arm, Minerva and Isobel followed Robert Sr. down the hill to a small white building set right on the edge of the village, just as they'd done for years before. The church matched the little town and their home perfectly: it was old, humble, and inviting.

The women entered and sat beside one another in a pew close to the pulpit, where Minerva's father was preparing his sermon. She noticed her mother had bowed her head and begun to pray, eyelids fluttering shut and lips moving to form words that were inaudible. Minerva, although familiar with prayer but not one to always engage, politely closed her eyes and silently thought about the things she was thankful for, letting a feeling of positivity fill and clear her mind. Her hand moved atop Isobel's, and the two witches sat peacefully until the service began.

When Reverend McGonagall had finished speaking and the congregators had risen, Minerva and her mother remained seated. They said nothing for a while, until finally Isobel turned to her daughter with a small smile. The sun had climbed into the sky and now shone through high windows to the left and right, illuminating their pale skin and dark hair in unison. Unbeknownst to them, their dear reverend was watching slyly between glances at his notes and the Scriptures.

"We didn't expect you to join us today," Isobel began, and for a second Minerva thought she was looking at her own reflection staring back at her. "I'm glad you could. You've not long, now."

"I thought it would be good for me," Minerva answered truthfully. "Despite what you may think, I always liked coming here, listening to Da. It's... soothing. There was so much chaos sometimes that, besides school, this might have been the only other place I could find solitude." She saw that her mother was listening intently, seagreen eyes glazing with what appeared to be tears. "Thank you... for this. Without it, I wouldn't have been able to keep my wits, in this world or that." Isobel only nodded, her smile spreading and lighting up her face. Minerva could tell she probably hadn't smiled like that for some time.

"Let's go into town today, dear," her mother said, standing and offering her hand. The pair of witches departed, bidding farewell to Robert, who wished to stay behind and study. Minerva's heart trilled with genuine happiness for the day ahead of her. These Muggle simplicities that magical folk most often misunderstood were closer to her than anyone would ever know.

·

Generally, Sunday market offered the least in terms of food and necessities, and therefore was more docile than any other day of the week. Minerva didn't mind, as she was just excited to be out and about, browsing the wares and chatting with the townsfolk who proudly displayed them. She knew Isobel liked to look as well, for it seemed to give her mother a sense of freedom, a release from her normal, daily duties as a housewife and parent to three growing, magical children. It would be inhuman of her to never become tired of the same routine.

The afternoon was warm, but not uncomfortably so. Minerva and her mother had become separated at one point, and though this didn't concern the former, she felt they should meet up soon. As she passed a stand selling jewelry and trinkets, Minerva caught sight of something she wasn't too accustomed to seeing: various animal hides hanging proudly on display, raw materials that she knew were used for making clothes and garments. Diagon Alley's few apothecaries sold all kinds of animal products, but none as whole and pure as these.

Noticing that the stall was deserted, Minerva moved in for a closer inspection. Right away she could smell the freshly tanned leather and newly shorn wool. Nothing appeared old or mistreated; the seller very obviously put their love into what they were willing to part with.

"See something you like?"

The voice startled the witch slightly, and when she looked up she had to keep herself from starting even further. Before her stood a young man that, in all his glory, quite literally took her breath away. His eyes were marbled, like they contained all colors, lined with sandy lashes that matched his tousled hair. His skin shone golden, a gift only the sun could bestow upon someone who worked so hard beneath its rays and he was apparently muscular, another sign that he toiled for long hours. The expression he wore on his squared jaw and firm brow told her he was someone with confidence in himself and whatever it was he did. She'd never seen him before, not from what she could remember, and this only served to pique her interest.

"Oh, I'm just looking, thanks," she said sheepishly, forcing her gaze elsewhere. She drifted to the end of the stall and he matched her, step for step. Minerva reached out and felt a pad of wool, the wiry curls dancing underneath her fingertips.

"My father and I, we're from a farm down the road. These are just some of the, ah, fruits of our labor."

"I see." Minerva faltered, for his focused stare was cutting right through her. He must've seen her heart beating wildly out her chest. Though he had taken a moment to explain himself, he seemed more fascinated in her than making a sale...

"I'm Dougal," the farmer's son suddenly put forth, his rough hand open for a shake.

"Minerva," she replied, and when their skin finally touched, the spark she received was so electrifying she thought, with great thrill, that he must be magical too.


	6. The Fifth

Author's Note: Whoops, forgot this the first time around. ;) Thanks for the reads and kind reviews! I will probably make another update later tonight because tomorrow I am moving overseas and I have no idea when I'll get back to a computer. In the meantime, enjoy! All previous disclaimers do indeed apply.

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><p><strong>September 1940<strong>

"I'm Tom Riddle, pleased to make your acquaintance. And you are?"

Her eyes slowly appeared over the spine of the book she was engrossed in, bottle green in the candlelight and dancing with amusement. His were so dark that she could see the tiny flames reflected in them, but they were otherwise closed to interpretation. Relinquishing her hold on the text, she revealed her face fully and then regarded the hand he'd laid across the table.

"I know who you are." Her lips habitually formed a thin line but she allowed a glimmer of smile to break through. This did not go unnoticed by Tom, who sat relaxed and ever watchful, taking in all of her details for himself. "Minerva McGonagall." She gripped his hand with hers and although it was shockingly cold, she held on courteously. "Pleased to meet you, Tom."

"The pleasure is mine," he replied, returning her microscopic smile with one of his own. "I see you're reading about... Transfiguration, is it?" Tom lifted the top end of the book in order to glance at its title. _Theories of Transubstantial Transfiguration_ gleamed back at him. Minerva, one brow above the other, took note of the page she had been at and closed the book, depositing it into her bag.

"Well, I was." He knew she was pretending to put up a tough front in some sort of trite, Gryffindor manner, but the upturning of the corners of her mouth wasn't hard to miss. "It's my favorite subject," she said then, more sincerely. "I couldn't imagine magic without it. Could you?" The third-year Slytherin shook his head.

"No, of course not. Tell me, what is it you like so much about Transfiguration? How does it, one might say, _speak_ to you?" He had nerve, this one. Striking up a conversation with an older Gryffindor female was not the least bit ordinary. Of course, the things that were said about Tom Riddle indicated clearly that he was anything but. Brilliant. Handsome. Charming. Those were only some of the adjectives used to describe him. Minerva could see right off the bat that they suited him well.

"You can't turn nothing into something. There needs to be an exchange, if you will," she explained. Minerva had done more than just her homework. "It's rather powerful magic working at a molecular level." He didn't seem to be losing interest as she talked, though there had to be some kind of catch to that.

"It's an art. A triumph of science in the Wizarding world." She nodded, a little surprised at his input but not unimpressed. Yes, they said he was brilliant, top of his class and moving upward every passing day. She scolded herself a little for not believing that one such as Tom Riddle could be so well read.

"In the case of Transfiguration, it is a branch of magic unable to function without the scientific properties that support it. The magic itself needs something to grasp, a base upon which to transform. Thus why conjured things disappear after a time. They're —"

"Merely an illusion," Tom finished. "Physical in nature, yes, but not original in form or creation. That being said, if we could conjure food, gold, information... why, the very fabric of our society would be torn to shreds. Nothing would be valuable or sacred."

"A Dark wizard acting as a weather machine would, indeed, bring our world crashing down," she added quietly.

"Yes, quite literally." Minerva found herself leaning forward as they talked, though it wasn't for the lowering of their voices. She was honestly intrigued with what Tom had to say, and by now she'd forgotten that this boy she'd met just minutes ago was a Slytherin, sworn enemy to Gryffindor House. If she didn't know any better, he seemed very much like a Gryffindor, his boldness and highly educated opinion speaking volumes to that.

They stayed in the library for some time, conversing about Gamp's Law and certain aspirations in the field until just before supper, choosing to disappear before Madam Pince could shoo them out. When they parted ways in the Great Hall, Minerva's head was spinning. There weren't many in her year or her House who could keep up with her enthusiasm for learning and her unique passion for Transfiguration. Many just wanted to know the answers to their assignments, glazing over when she went out of her way to lay out the particulars. She could always rely on Professor Dumbledore for a good conversation or debate, but as a teacher his time was limited, and as a busy student, so was hers.

She picked at her food distractedly while her friends chatted and goofed off around her. It _did_ feel nice, to have talked to someone on the same level, and to be considered in return. It was liberating, almost. Minerva wondered absently if she would have the occasion to speak with Tom Riddle ever again.

·

**November 1941**

A blustery Saturday never made for ideal conditions for a trip to Hogsmeade, but Tom had been relieved to find that things improved once the students had entered the village. The sun decided to show itself between dreary clouds, and the wind died down to gentle eddies shuffling leaves along the narrow streets. Most headed for the warmth and comfort of the Three Broomsticks or Honeydukes. Tom preferred to remain solitary and walked the path to Hogsmeade Station, reveling in the crunch of gravel and tree matter underfoot.

He passed the tracks and surrounding underbrush, eventually emerging from thin trees on the shores of the lake's other side. Half a mile away the castle stood strong, and Tom found himself thinking about its complexities and the dark secrets it held behind its enchanted walls. Recently his curiosity had gotten the better of him, but he knew thinking like that was the only reason he'd gotten here, so far ahead of what anyone else and their ignorance could even fathom.

It had started shortly after the beginning of his third year. The urge to find out more about his past had always been there, but it'd grown much stronger by the time he'd turned fourteen and slowly withdrew from the Hogwarts limelight for more favorable Slytherin conquests. He and Minerva rendezvoused in the library multiple times a week for animated discussion on a wide variety of subjects, but he often made trips alone to research whatever he could find about his magical origins.

Naturally, Tom was able to discover his heritage in only a matter of months as he fervently researched his ancestry through Wizarding accounts. He had never given much thought to perusing orphanage records on paper or through Mrs. Cole, the daft Muggle she was. A special wizard like him couldn't have been contained in such a place had anyone there known where he'd really come from.

Reaching a conclusion had been easier than writing a six inch essay on theorems of Arithmancy — he, Tom Marvolo Riddle, was the sole living heir of Salazar Slytherin, the namesake of his House. He relished the thought of his powerful father's family and spat at the weakness of his dead mother and her kin. More than anything, he was determined to find the legendary Chamber of Secrets and carry out Slytherin's grand work. No one could be trusted with this well of information and intention, but his growing band of followers were guaranteed to do his bidding without question.

Presently, Tom sighed satisfactorily at the knowledge he had acquired. A chill lifted itself from the surface of the water and settled over him, but he gave not even a shiver. Soon, Muggles and their undeserving bastard children would be sorry they ever existed. He'd have to be patient, and it would be slow going, but it was soon that their time would come.

Tom left the lake and sauntered into the high street of Hogsmeade just in time to see the rest of the students heading back toward the school. One couple that burst forth from the Broomsticks caught his eye, and he dropped back to observe them on the return walk.

They were elbow in elbow, scarf to scarf, laughing about Quidditch and other trivial things. Noel Banks, the current Gryffindor Quidditch captain, was a handsome fellow in his sixth year, tall and broad shouldered with dark locks and a nice smile. He was more of an athlete than a wizard, though Tom knew it probably wasn't his intellect Minerva was attracted to. He could see that Noel gazed at her with hungry eyes, and it was more than obvious she saw this as well. Tom felt a little ill at the idea of Minerva lowering herself for the sake of this imbecile, but he remembered that she _was_ a Gryffindor, after all.

Departing with a peck on the cheek and a fond farewell, Minerva walked in the direction of the library while Noel took a route to somewhere unknown. As much as he would have liked, Tom decided not to follow her, choosing instead to stalk Noel through the halls. He realized a short time later that the Quidditch captain was heading to the pitch, most likely to get some practice in before the sun went down and the winds kicked up again. An evil scheme had been hatching in Tom's brain, and he now had the perfect opportunity to execute it.

The locker room was empty, save for the flying Lion and the wicked Serpent. Tom stood to the side, concealed by shadows, while Noel hummed to himself and strapped on his gear. He seemed to be eager to get into the air as he bounded from the room, forgetting his gloves on the bench. Tom almost laughed. It was too perfect.

"_Serpensortia_," he cast. The black snake slid forth from his wand, slithering under the bench where Tom directed it. "_Wait to strike until he leans down, and then he is all yours_." The snake's eyes gleamed at the spoken command and it did as Tom said, coiled tightly and hidden in the shade of the bench. When he heard Noel approaching, Tom made sure to disappear quickly and quietly. No one had seen him, and he felt a rush of excitement at the terror to be unleashed upon the unsuspecting Quidditch captain.

Not too long after the incident did Tom hear that Noel had suffered injuries to his eyes and neck, and it was possible he'd be holed up in the infirmary for the rest of the season. Rumors flew about, wildly animating his mysterious afflictions and how he'd gotten them. A prank gone wrong? A malfunctioning wand? A mad owl in the locker room? Whatever they'd decided to settle on, Tom felt secure in that no one would suspect him. Not even Dumbledore, who scrutinized him during every period, could touch him. Sometimes he found himself smiling at his wretched misdeed, having triumphed over those animalistic eyes that had sized Minerva up. Not anymore, he thought with glee.

Predictably, Minerva was disheartened and visited the boy often. She expressed her concerns to Tom on numerous occasions and was met with cold reassurance that Noel would mend and be back in the game in no time. Overall, Tom was satisfied with the outcome. Minerva seemed to gravitate toward him now more than ever. There would come a time, perhaps, when she would find another, but he knew just how to reel her back in.


	7. The Sixth

Author's Note: Chapter six, as promised tonight. Things are getting creepier... and I like it, hehe. Hope you do, too. Much more to come, when I find the time. All previous disclaimers apply.

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><p><strong>July 1944<strong>

After a long day of gardening and tidying up the house, all Minerva looked forward to was her bed and the exciting prospect of sleep. Not that she minded the chores, but sometimes she forgot how exhausting manual labor really could be. The worst any wizard or witch endured was, under normal circumstances, a sore wand hand or a mere crick in the wrist.

Supper still warm in her belly, she practically stumbled upstairs to her room while the sun quickly headed down. Tonight she paid no mind to her hair or her face, instead choosing to collapse onto the quilted mattress without even evacuating her clothes. But however hard the day, Minerva was glad to have been able to utilize her hands for something other than magic. She wanted to feel like she could be of some use in the one place she was virtually useless.

Her eyes weren't closed long before all consciousness began to dissolve from her mind. She faintly heard Malcom and Robert Jr. outside, taunting the dogs, but not even this could stir her. Minerva, weary to her toes, fell fast and hard into dreams.

_The field was endless and she was swimming in it. Each step felt like wading, and finally she had to stop because it was making her ill. There was no breeze, but the tall grass was continually ebbing and flowing around her. And then, on the orange horizon, she spotted a speck of a figure, drawing nearer. She had been mistaken to think that she was alone in her wandering._

_ From afar, the approaching stranger was indiscernible except for their build, leading her to believe it was a male. Perhaps her father? A brother? Perhaps... As he came closer he held up a hand in salutation, which seemed friendly enough, encouraging Minerva to begin the trek to meeting him halfway. Her pulse flitted curiously throughout her being, and her need to see this person's face pushed her stride forward, faster and more urgent than just prior. Who could be in such a place, waiting for her?_

_ "Minerva! Here!" Although she heard the words he spoke, the sound of his voice became engulfed in the air like a gust of wind had purposely snatched it up and carried it away. He called out again, still waving, and finally she felt he was coming into clear view as they moved ever toward one another. She felt a smile erupt across her face; it was Dougal, she was sure of it. Who else could make her heart jump higher than she herself?_

_ Then, so suddenly that it knocked the breath from her throat, they were chest to chest, pulled taut together like the opening of a drawstring pouch. He warmed her as she leaned into him, and she didn't even try to suppress a shudder of pleasure as he ran his hands from her shoulders to her fingertips. She couldn't see his face, but he felt so familiar that she knew it had to be him._

_ When she looked up to catch a glimpse of his beautiful hazel eyes, every molecule in her body froze. The sky overhead darkened considerably; her muscles tensed and she grew cold at his touch, as if he had the power to literally turn her to ice. Panic coursed through her, but she couldn't move. His grip tightened, uncomfortably at first but then painfully as she tried to rip herself from it. And his eyes... they were dull, black, soulless. These she knew well._

_ "I'm right here, Minerva." Tom Riddle was sneering at her from above, and she felt herself growing smaller, more helpless as the seconds passed. His pale skin did not glow or radiate the heat of a human body; his bony hands were latched onto her like skeletal shackles, slicing into the delicate flesh of her wrists and splattering blood across the front of her dress. There was a blinding pain below her navel, where one of his sharpened hands had entered her and grabbed at her insides. "We are destined to be together... **forever**." And then he twisted the lance, tearing everything away in one pull, leaving her spread to rot._

_ She opened her mouth to scream when he leaned down and swallowed her whole._

Sweaty and disoriented and panting for breath, Minerva awoke in a tangled mess of day clothes and sheets. Her hair had mostly fallen from its hold atop her head and one sock was askew while her shirt lay halfway open. She glanced out the window to see that all was dark, with the exception of a waning moon hanging sideways in the air. She breathed deeply to steady her jangled nerves and frantic thoughts.

It had been a long time since she'd thought of Tom Riddle, so why now? They'd met halfway through her Hogwarts career, and to her he was someone who had possessed a higher intellect and greater zest for learning magic than most she'd encountered. Although she became the envy of almost every female student overnight, she'd only befriended him at first for the sake of good conversation and mending House prejudices. Romance had been one of her lowest priorities, and though many would paint her a liar, she stayed true to her convictions.

While Minerva tried to see some good in Tom, she was not ignorant to the things he got up to when she wasn't around. He certainly acted innocent, but she knew better. As they advanced in their years, she'd tried to dissuade him from engaging in the foolishness that he'd tried to persuade her to join. Eventually, despite their disagreements, he seemed to take an interest in her that was beyond the boundaries of friendship and was unafraid of expressing this want. Eventually, she'd begun to hear things about him and his gang that disturbed her to her core, things that easily made her see him as an unworthy friend, lover, or anything in between. He did not take this lightly; neither did she, but she'd never shown it.

And then there was the evening by the lake...

·

The next morning, Minerva roused herself from a less-than-restful slumber. She knew, by the position of the sun in the sky, that she had slept in beyond her usual waking hour, but this she ignored, for her muscles ached and her mind still circulated images from the nightmarish dream she'd had just hours before. What did it mean?

It didn't surprise her that the whole family was awake and seated for breakfast around the kitchen table when she finally made her way downstairs. She sat wearily and issued a mumbled "good morning" while pouring herself a spot of tea and sitting back to enjoy it. Malcom and Robert Jr. were too busy planning their day to reply, and Isobel and Robert Sr. continued to eat, though their bemused glances did not go unnoticed. She knew then that leaving her room without checking herself in the mirror was probably not one of her best ideas to date.

As she reached for a piece of toast to settle her growling stomach, something purple hanging near the edge of the table caught her eye. She abandoned her food for a moment to examine it and saw three lush blooms of Scots primrose, bound together by dark twine. There was no note; any indication that they were for her was pure speculation.

"Found those on the porch this morning, Minnie," said young Robert, exchanging looks with their brother and waggling his eyebrows up and down in a teasing manner. She rolled her eyes and left the flowers alone, returning her attention to her plate.

"Must be from Farmer Muggle," Malcom suggested, trying to get a rise out of her. The two boys chuckled heartily, though she resisted taking the bait.

"Malcom, Robert, mind your business. Minerva, we'll speak of this later," their father scolded gently from across the table. Her brothers only giggled harder at this and, taking their plates to the sink, scampered upstairs to do who knew what. Isobel shook her head and made to clean up after them. One eye still on the flowers, Minerva finished her meal in silence, not looking forward to the conversation to come.

Around noon, while relaxing in the front yard on a blanket with one of the family hounds, Minerva looked up to find Dougal at the front gate, watching her. She smiled in greeting and stood immediately, sidling up to the fence to meet him. After a brief repartee he gave her his arm, and together they strolled down the hill toward the village, the sun following every step of the way.

Small talk aside, he at last asked a question she had been expecting, but was taken aback at his actual words. "Did you get the heather I left for you?" This stopped her in her tracks, and he came to a jolted halt as well.

"Heather?" Minerva found herself smiling out of nervousness; perhaps he'd mistaken the flowers for something else?

"Yes, heather. I know it's everywhere but I saw some that was perfect and thought you'd like it..." Dougal seemed disappointed, thinking that perhaps she'd done away with the flowers out of distaste. She sensed this and tried to reassure him.

"Well... I _did_ receive a some very lovely primroses, and I assumed that they were from you. Not heather, but sweet nonetheless." She hoped this would alleviate his distress, but it only seemed to confuse him more.

"Primroses, eh? Scots?" She confirmed. He rubbed at the scruff on his chin. "Must not have been that good, it's getting a bit late for those. I'm certain I left you heather this morning." Her smile faded, and as anxiety began to ripple through her, he took her hand and it subsided.

"From an admirer, then, of a different kind. Da, he writes a lot. I know there are others beyond this village who have read what he's had to say. Or perhaps from the milkman, he seems to have taken a liking to Mum..." She was nodding, more to herself than to him, but he accepted this all the same. Slowly, his fingers intertwined with hers and he pulled her closer. Like this, she felt that nothing could hurt her; bad things were but a distant cloud on the skyline.

"As I said, there's plenty of heather round here to be had," Dougal reiterated quietly. Minerva could hear the growing huskiness in his voice and knew she had a growing desire to match. His other hand had found its way to her hip and each circle he drew with his thumb penetrated to the bone, mesmerizing her. She forgot any uneasiness she had previously felt, instead allowing herself to be drawn into another dimension entirely. "Shall we?" And she gave her assent as he whisked her away.


	8. The Seventh

Author's Note: Why hello there! It's been a bit since I've posted, but I believe my affairs are now in order for the most part so here's an update, finally. As I understand it, FF dot net has been having some outages as of late, so here goes nothing. I hope this makes sense, as my writing was interrupted for a while due to the move. Also, the rating is changing from now on because of certain content. ;) Feedback is always welcome. All previous disclaimers apply. Please enjoy.

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><p><strong>March 1942<strong>

It was springtime at Hogwarts, and though love was certain to be in the air, trepidation was sure to accompany it. For those students with Muggle relatives living anywhere in the world, the war was cause for great concern. Minerva wrote her mother and father as often as she could, though she purposely left out details about Tom and her growing discomfort with him. There was already enough for any of them to be worrying about.

Since their courtyard conversation in January, she'd seen Tom less and less, except for in class, when he seemed all but subdued, and on occasion in the library, where he was either studying furiously or gathering materials to take back to his own common room. Minerva couldn't help but wonder just what he was up to. His brooding was so intense that she could feel it regardless of whether she was at the end of the same table or all the way on the other side of the room. What was he so entranced with? What had captured him so?

She had no doubt it involved Slytherin House. Minerva herself had never gone out of her way to make enemies with anyone at school, but she, like so many others, could not deny the slimy qualities a good deal of Slytherins shared and often acted upon. Tom had treated her with a certain kindness that had astonished everyone, but now she began to question his motives. Perhaps she'd been a fool to think he was different from the rest and had seen her in a mutual light. Maybe Slytherins and Gryffindors really weren't meant to be friends.

However, Tom's absence was almost a relief for her. Sometimes he'd bombard her with overzealous compliments about her skills, which made her somewhat self-conscious. Minerva figured that any student with a brain in their skull and a decent amount of dedication would be as good as he made her out to be. Other times he'd go on and on about powerful pureblooded figures — typical Slytherin jargon — only to turn the tables on her and want to know more about her own origins. From these sorts of exchanges, and from what (little, if anything) he shared about his own past, Minerva eventually deduced that he was parentless, or at least was not on very good terms with either of them. He seemed to envy those brought up by a witch and a wizard or, even more so, those from old, influential families. She could tell he thought about this so often that it bordered on obsession, and she was careful, or completely reluctant, to answer his questions.

As the days turned into weeks, Minerva's worry for Tom diminished. They hardly exchanged a word in the halls and his cohorts often sneered at her when she passed. One night she spied him heading down a corridor from the direction of the library during her watch and she became more alert, though never followed up on the incident. Finally, Minerva decided that seeking him out was pointless. If he wanted to talk, he knew exactly where to find her.

**December 1942**

As autumn waned and winter approached in full force, Tom's grand task neared completion. He had started his fifth year and became a Slytherin prefect, an "honor" he knew he'd had coming. He had seen to it that his group of followers contained those who proved themselves absolutely: on behalf of Tom they exerted their power upon others and never feared retribution. They'd congratulated him heartily on his expanded authority, which gave them greater leeway to do as they pleased. Tom found it extremely amusing how a little gold badge had granted him control that so many of his fellow students blindly pined after.

More importantly, though, the Chamber of Secrets had been found, and Tom had at last set foot inside. His Parseltongue lead the way through what could only be described as the bowels of Hogwarts — a damp, foul place where rot and death were the only things able to exist. Of course, Tom had not gone unprepared for the evil he would find lurking there. Again, his ability to communicate with snakes came in very handy and had saved his skin from the paralyzing glare of the Basilisk. Only a total and perverted disregard for human and animal life could have produced such an ugly creature. Tom gave thanks to Salazar Slytherin for the generous gift.

In mere hours the monster had fallen under his influence as the rightful heir to the Slytherin name, and in a week Tom dominated the Basilisk with such clout that it recoiled at the sight of his wand hand. He had established one rule for his mastering: never fear the beast. So far this had worked to his advantage and he began to feel excitement creeping up his spine like the legs of a spider sliding over a web. Tom Riddle would unleash this terror upon Hogwarts so soon that he could hardly wait.

Some days before Christmas, Tom suddenly found himself glancing at his side or across the library table with increasing frequency. The lack of Minerva McGonagall's presence had snuck up on him, and soon he found the part of him he'd deemed most irrational wanting to be in her company. They could be discussing homework, philosophy, anything — even Quidditch! — and he would be satisfied knowing that her attention was being paid to him.

The vulgarity of investing too much in one person swept over him, as it often did when he thought about her. She was powerful and extremely intelligent, but she was also a Gryffindor and loyal as hell to her beliefs, which made her terribly difficult to manipulate. In truth, Tom never wanted to take advantage of her in order to bring her to his side. She was a year his senior, no child by any means, and he held onto a faint idea that she would eventually join him of her own accord. This was most likely an impossibility, but because it was Minerva, Tom was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt, at least for a time.

With a stiff neck and back that ached like a devil had been leaning over his shoulder all night, Tom rose from his seat in the Slytherin common room and made for the fifth floor, where the prefects' bathroom was located. These sorts of luxuries had never really appealed to him, but now that he had free access, he figured it couldn't do any harm. Mulling things over in a place other than a dark dungeon or a dim library could very well do him some (dare he think it?) good.

"Lather up" was the correct pass-phrase, and when spoken the door opened, letting Tom inside. There was a small, solid partition to his left as he entered, which he reasoned was for privacy, but before he could step beyond it, two voices stopped him from going any further. One was male and not easily discernible, but the other, a female, was the one he'd been secretly longing to hear for days.

"Bloody beautiful. Just look at you." The lilt of Minerva's giggle — Tom had never actually heard her make such a noise — echoed off the gleaming walls and floor. Limbs moved through water and there was the unmistakeable sound of mouth upon mouth. Then, mouth over flesh, and breathy moans from Minerva's pale throat, which, in that moment, Tom wished to slit.

The Slytherin dared to peek around the wall and was confronted first with the sight of broad shoulders and a wet mop of hair, and second with Minerva's heaving chest and her lips parted in bliss. Her breasts looked soft, but the hand that reached up and took one for itself ruined it for him. Tom was still unaware of the identity of her companion until the boy turned to the right to activate a few of the faucets.

In profile Tom recognized him, a Ravenclaw in his seventh year by the name of Daniel Walsh. He was no athlete but he was far from dimwitted. Walsh's father held an important position at the Ministry of Magic and his mother was a homemaker or some such thing. He would most likely graduate with top marks and also take a job with the Ministry, though Tom couldn't say that Daniel was particularly talented in any one area.

Over the rushing water Minerva's voice rose, wordless gasps of pleasure that did not sound quite genuine. She was on top and her green eyes stared defiantly down at her partner, but her expression displayed no love or even affection for him. Daniel's palms slid everywhere on her body, as if he knew not what to do with them, but Minerva kept a firm hold on the edge of the pool with one hand while the other gripped his hair. Tom grew a new grain of respect for her: she knew what she wanted and had no problem taking charge. She was the leader type, yes, but she had always seemed more at ease putting others before herself. In this scenario, it seemed to be quite the opposite.

When they were through, the room was a blend of colorful bubbles and sickly sweet scents. Minerva hoisted herself up and turned to exit the bath, and it was so that Daniel could not resist pawing at her bum. Tom rolled his eyes but returned his gaze just in time to see her whirl around and give the boy a look so threatening that it may have rivaled even the Basilisk's piercing gaze. The Slytherin committed this to memory, and for some reason found himself more aroused at her darkened stare than any other physicality she possessed.

Hastily Minerva dressed herself without a word to the other who'd decided to lounge for a while longer. Tom used this time to silently escape. He would only return to make the bath water hotter than any human could bear.

As he'd predicted, Minerva left for the winter holidays. On New Year's Eve Tom sat up, alone, enjoying the sparseness of his common room but hopelessly wishing that he had somewhere else to go, just for one night. A few of his closest gang members had sent gifts and letters, but for the most part the trinkets and words were mediocre, useless at best. Only one stood out: a small black journal, in which Tom had immediately begun to record his thoughts. He made allusions to his plan but more or less documented his views on their current world, as well as the research made into his own past. He enchanted the little book with a Parseltongue password so that no one but he could flip through its pages and take in his secrets.

Tom began a countdown to the opening of the Chamber. He'd made a mental list of targets but he figured it would also be good to let the creature have some fun of its own. After all, it must have grown quite bored down there, having nothing to hunt but rats and the occasional cat for the last century. Hogwarts needed a little shaking up, a series of dramatic events to stir it from its complacency. Setting an ancient monster loose in the castle would do just the trick.

Hungrily, Tom awaited his throne of Mudblood bones.


	9. The Eighth

Author's Note: I haven't forgotten about this story, although life would like me to. :) Thanks for the reviews and for stopping by to read. Hopefully I won't go so long between the next update! All previous disclaimers apply. Enjoy.

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><p><strong>July 1944<strong>

Minerva sighed deeply, rolling onto her side to gaze out the open window to her left. It was late afternoon and light filtered in beautifully, warming the skin of her face and exposed arms. Normally she wouldn't be in her room, let alone laying in bed at this time of day, but her thoughts had lead her here, making her body tired and leaving her mind to tirelessly wander.

Only two days had passed since her last encounter with Dougal McGregor, but she was still reeling from it. After they had left the vicinity of the manse and walked for a time toward the village, he took her to his father's old, beaten up truck and offered her the passenger seat, promising just a short ride a few miles down the road to a magnificent spot on the coast. Minerva hadn't known which to be more excited about: being driven around in a Muggle vehicle or feeling the Scottish sand beneath her feet. It had been a long time since she'd done either.

The truck was a little rusted from the sea air and kicked when it started, but soon they were on their way. Minerva had let one arm drape languidly out the passenger side window, slicing through the draft with long fingers that reached for the blue sky. Dougal was grinning at her the whole time, infected by her obvious bliss. She just couldn't help herself. In all the ways that Wizarding folk had simplified their lives, there were just some Muggle simplicities that couldn't be replicated by a spell.

They arrived not long after their departure, and it was all Minerva could do not to bolt from the truck and down to the tide. Dougal parked on a small knoll above the beach and helped her out with an affectionate arm on her waist, lifting her easily and causing a squeal of delight to emit from her rosy lips. Then she was wrapping her arms around his neck and her legs about his hips and he held her there, her back pressed to the closed door of the truck. The moment was silent, save for the waves lapping at the shore, and boldly she pressed her mouth to his, emotions lighting her aflame and burning her joyously from the inside out.

His kiss was loving from the start, and he tasted sweet as fresh dairy and earthy like the fields he ploughed. He cut it short then, for the heather and the view of the ocean, but she didn't mind. Both were flushed and smiling stupidly, and he placed a kiss on her nose before hoisting her off the truck, into the sand. Fingers laced, they walked along the shore toward a cove of rock, underneath which one could escape the sun and on top of which one could look out upon the world.

Without waiting, Minerva pulled Dougal up the face of the rock and together they scaled the landing, mesmerized by what they saw above. There was a sea of another kind upon the moors, breathing and waving in the breeze. It radiated with color, violet and magenta gradients, all bleeding as one. Minerva stood in front of Dougal and he held her to his chest with his arms around her shoulders.

"It's beautiful," she observed. She felt his nod and turned to face him, all her affection welling up and threatening to spill over. The intensity of her stare spurred Dougal into action and he brought their faces together in a kiss so fierce that she felt death at that moment would not be an unhappy occurrence. Soon enough they were edging away from the rock, toward the moors and softer surfaces upon which to lay. Any other witch or wizard would have conjured a blanket or a barrier, but she didn't care. Shrub on her back and dirt in her hair be damned.

Minerva soon found herself atop her handsome farm boy, her fingers at the fastening of his trousers when he stayed her motions to ask if it was what she really wanted.

"You're sure?" He was concerned, she could see it in his eyes, and this only encouraged her further. She smiled and kissed him in reply, and he then unbuttoned her blouse, reveling in her unmarred skin and buoyant breasts, and the way her long dark hair framed it all. By now Minerva had him and had pulled down her knickers, though she chose to leave her skirt on due to the ocean air nipping at her backside. She could tell Dougal was aching with need and she answered him by combining their heat, simultaneous gasps of amazement and arousal torn from their beautiful young mouths.

They crashed against one another like the waves upon the rocks, fulfilling their new love amongst the heather and the ocean's song below.

Minerva's hands clasped at her chest, the ecstasy of those moments still ringing through her. She was not new to sex (though to call her an expert would be droll), but rather the romantic implications of it, which were a whole new world waiting to be explored. She was not a prude like many thought her to be, having had a few encounters during her days at Hogwarts, but nothing she ever did with anyone else had felt like this. Dougal was only a few years older, though experience wasn't something he had emphasized while with her. He was respectful of her and her body, and made sure that whatever she gave to him, he gave her just as much in return.

She remembered how he felt and she could not help but think that they were made for each other. It was perfection, as if someone had crafted them specifically with this purpose in mind, and they had finally been reunited after every other circumstance in life would serve to keep them apart. When they were together, she could feel nothing but love. Her overwhelming magical impulses seemed to shut off, and all she needed was him to sustain her. It had been just over a month since they'd met, but to her it could have been an entire lifetime that they'd already spent side by side.

They'd left the beach in no hurry, but twilight had set in by the time they made it back to the truck. Minerva wasn't ready to go home, so they drove back toward the village, diverging from the road and traveling toward the McGregor farm. It wasn't very far from anything, but Minerva saw that Dougal and his father owned an abundance of land, which set the farm apart from the closeness of their small town.

Dougal drove the truck past the house and toward the old barn, parking near it and leaning back to inhale the fresh air.

"Smell that? Freedom," he'd said.

She smiled and leaned her body out the passenger side window, gaping at the clarity of the starlit sky above. There were so many, too many to count, and her eyes didn't know where to roam first. The Great Hall could only replicate a mere fraction of this, but what she'd seen at the farm was the real thing. It was then that he'd asked her to stay, and she knew she couldn't deny his request. All night they talked and shared and eventually fell asleep in the barn, warmed by one another and the hay.

A rapping at the door startled Minerva out of her reverie. She sat up on the bed to face her visitor, straightening her clothes and pulling her hair back into place. Her father entered a moment later and shut the door behind him, turning toward her, his face stern. Instantly, Minerva knew.

"Your mother and I... we're a bit worried about you," Robert said. "When you didn't come home the other night, we were afraid that, well, perhaps you'd run away." She stared at a foot on her wardrobe, ashamed that she had scared her parents but feeling a little unapologetic for her rebelliousness.

"I would never." She brought her eyes to his and saw many things there, namely anger and hurt. She would try her best to remedy this, but was unsure at how successful she would be. "We were at the beach all day and decided to stay the night at his farm down the road. We lost track of the time... Dougal would never let anything happen to me." This explanation only seemed to aggravate Robert further.

"You will not see this boy anymore, Minerva." Her heart, already sinking fast, plummeted. "You know what it would mean for you — for this family! — if he ever found anything out. Don't you see?" Robert's arms were tight at his sides, and she could see his they had balled into fists. "No, don't say you do." He turned away from her, eyes on the door. "Your mother... she gave up everything to be with me. Not a day goes by that both of us don't feel guilty. Are you going to do the same, just toss aside everything you've worked for, for this — _farmer's son_?" The voice he'd raised had gone quiet now, and the lump Minerva had been trying to swallow refused to stay down.

"I... care for him," she admitted softly. The fire she'd lit for Dougal suddenly flared as she thought of his face and his genuine smile. "He makes me feel more alive than magic ever could!" At this, Robert shook his head in disappointment, feeling it not only in his mind but in his heart. Despite the things that had gone awry in his own marriage, they'd come through it with three beautiful children and a simple enough life. But Minerva, as understanding as she'd ever been, had seemed to want nothing to do with the Muggle world... his world. So when had she suddenly changed her mind?

"Magic was something you were born with, a gift that you were meant to receive. It will never leave you, try as you might to forget about it or shoo it away." Robert strode to his daughter then and laid his hands on her shoulders, looking her square in the face and trying to show her that what he said was absolutely true. "How do you know that _he_ will stay if you reveal your true self to him?" A single tear escaped Minerva's eye and he wiped it away, his anger gone and replaced by fatherly affection and concern. He swept her into a hug before more tears came, and if he had not done so, Minerva felt she would have utterly fallen to pieces.

Just outside the door, Isobel listened in carefully, although eavesdropping was not an activity she particularly enjoyed. On one hand, she could understand Minerva's feelings and how she'd come by them, and Isobel was saddened that they could cause her daughter any pain. On the other, she had to agree with Robert not only out of apprehension for the family but for Minerva herself. Isobel often longed to return to the Wizarding world, even as she was fully aware of the choice she had made. It was hard enough having three constant reminders of what she'd chosen to lose, but it would be harder still if she had to watch her eldest go through the same thing she once did. There was plenty of love in the world, infinite amounts of it, and she hoped that in time Minerva would see this.

Robert exited his daughter's bedroom minutes later, not surprised to see his wife leaning against the wall outside. He approached her and brought her in for an embrace, and they said nothing as they held one another there. When Isobel pulled back, she put a hand to Robert's stubbled cheek and gazed into his tired eyes.

"In the end, it's her life," he murmured defeatedly. He thought back to her sullen face and the tears she rarely ever shed, even in front of her own family. "Will she ever forgive me for taking the light from her world?" His wife nodded and drew closer to kiss him in reassurance.

"You've taken nothing but that same light and shone it upon something she would have had to face sooner or later. She'll find her way. Minerva may be stubborn, but the girl is tough as armor and smarter than all the books she's ever read. Every bit a Ross and a McGonagall." These small words in his ear seemed to comfort him as they departed down the stairs to call the boys in for supper.


	10. The Ninth

Author's Note: It's been a while, so here's a longer chapter to keep the story going. I hope it's up to standard. As always, nothing but this darling plot bunny belongs to me. :)

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><p><strong>March 1943<strong>

Minerva did everything in her power not to roll her eyes behind her textbook. By now she'd picked a different table in the library to frequent, one that was more secluded and guaranteed more quiet than the last. But the place wasn't so monumentally big that he couldn't find her.

"Afternoon," Tom said. His tone was casual, as if they'd seen each other the day before, and he sat just as casually, taking in the title of the book she was studying. This reminded him of their first meeting and he remembered the moment with more fondness than he would have liked.

"You're doing well, I presume?" she asked and continued to read, though the words and their meanings had become muddled as soon as he'd taken a seat. With great effort she stifled a frustrated groan and closed the book, meeting his eyes for the first time in months. They were hard and expressionless as ever, something she thought she'd never get used to.

"Of course," he replied. Yes, _of course_. It was hardly in Tom Riddle's nature to apologize. "Did you have a good holiday?" Feigning interest, on the other hand, seemed very much like him. Minerva felt she'd humor him with any old answer and then be off. To be fair, she had a meeting with Professor Dumbledore about her ambitions to become an Animagus, and not even this enigmatic Slytherin could distract her from that.

"Yes, it was lovely." She wasn't lying. This past Christmas she'd spent at home with her family had been one of the best of her life, but she didn't feel much obliged to share such details. "Are we quite finished here?" She stood and collected her things, ready to leave him. Tom observed her face, noting pursed lips and one eyebrow raised higher than the other. It was more than obvious that she was annoyed, but in her eyes he saw... boredom? How could this be?

He moved around the table and held her wrist so fast that she failed to hide her surprise. "Come to Hogsmeade with me next weekend." Minerva knew instantly that this was no simple request. Tom Riddle was demanding, not inviting. "Unless... you've already found someone else to go with?"

He'd already caught her off guard, and now this. She suspected he knew the answer and shook her head, slightly deflated. Out of the corner of her eye, Minerva saw a gaggle of girls spying on them from a bookshelf away. This time she did roll her eyes, almost regretting her trip to the library in the first place. Instead of replying, she found herself thinking, which for her was the much easier option of the two.

She'd been committed to ignoring him for an entire year, though not in the same sense that he had been ignoring her. A McGonagall was stubborn as hell, but never held grudges. Giving him another chance wouldn't be _too_ far out of the scope of reason, would it? What had he really done other than cease speaking to her? And, after all, he had sought her out. If he was here now, perhaps he genuinely wanted to make amends. The least she could do was accept his offer and see how things went. Was there really any harm in that? And maybe, just maybe she would find out what he was really up to —

Tom could sense her intense contemplation and spoke, bringing her thought processes to a screeching halt.

"Well?"

"Fine," she said quickly.

"Oh, do sound a little more enthusiastic, won't you?" Minerva had to stop an incredulous laugh behind her teeth, for he hardly sounded excited himself. She chose to let out a small smile and finally looked him in the face once more.

"Yes, fine. But you owe me at least two Butterbeers." At this Tom grimaced a little and she felt compelled to land a soft punch to his right shoulder. Something in his expression lightened considerably and he pretended to be gravely injured, cradling his arm where she'd hit it.

"For that I'll spot you _one_ cup of tea," he said resolutely. Her eyebrow again reached for her hairline.

"I understand you aren't one for the atmosphere of the Broomsticks, but you don't seem the Madame Puddifoot's type either. Though, I suppose I've been wrong before..." Most of her previous irritation began to dissolve, and while a small part of her remained doubtful, she decided to put her best foot foward. It was the end of her sixth year and with just one more to go, there was no time to waste her energy on silent misgivings.

Tom shrugged at her ascertainment and removed his hand from her person. This seemed to further ease some of the tension between them.

"Tea it is then." The silence that followed was a little awkward, but Minerva treated it with an "it's nice to see you again" before mentioning her appointment and bidding him a good day. Tom's mood dampened at Dumbledore's name but politely he waved goodbye and watched as she vanished beyond the rows of books.

·

The Hogsmeade trip had been pleasant, to say the least. Valentine's Day had come and gone, therefore a reasonable amount of privacy was to be had at the tea shop. Though Tom and Minerva were hardly there for canoodling, they shared a decent pot of chamomile, and for the first time in a while Minerva felt relaxed in Tom's presence.

They talked as if there had been no pause in the time they'd spent together, and while he stayed far from revealing what he'd been so enthralled with, it was certainly in her to try and find out. But no matter how many times she attempted to bring up the subject, he steered the conversation down another avenue. At one instance she'd glanced around to see if anyone of an undesirable nature could have been listening in, but there was no one she detected.

"Try to stay out of trouble," she pressed, sipping her tea and awaiting his reaction. He merely waved her off. Minerva set her cup down and addressed him more seriously. "I mean it, Tom. I know we see some things differently, and though I admire you as a fellow student and as a friend... I don't want to hear about any funny business." Tom hated being told what to do so to get her to back off he gave her a forced smile and nod of understanding, which she returned in kind.

Once the pot had grown cold, the two students left the shop (Tom paid, as he'd promised), strolling along the high street in no hurry to be in any particular place. At a point he'd asked how her meeting with Dumbledore went. It was then Minerva's turn to be discreet, and she mentioned only that it had to do with her future career aspirations in the field of Transfiguration, as well as her concerns about the next year's N.E.W.T. exams. For some reason she didn't want Tom to know that she planned to become an Animagus, but she felt it was only fair that she had her own secrets. Not that it would really matter in the end, as it would one day be in the public records that he would have access to it at any time if he so wished.

Their outing ended in the Great Hall as peaceful as it had started. Minerva and Tom parted ways, she to finish up some homework, and he to languish in his own common room, pondering what had just taken place. There was more than one occasion in their long conversation where Tom would have liked to let Minerva in on his plan, but he knew better than anything that she was not to be trusted, especially now that he realized how close she and Dumbledore actually were. Albus Dumbledore, the one wizard that had kept the sharpest eye on him since his arrival, was definitely hard to fool but could be easily overridden. He was a problem that Tom had acknowledged early on, one that he knew would be dealt with as it came.

One piece of extremely pertinent information Tom managed to glean that day had been a bit about Minerva's past. Lately he'd been thinking on his own, unsatisfied with what he'd previously dug up. There were gaping holes that he couldn't begin to fill, one being the glaring inconsistency of just whose side he'd inherited his abilities from. His assumptions were what had lead him to his discovery, but they were only that. It had gnawed at him for months now, even through his careful ministrations in the Chamber, and he'd been reluctant to return to the library on the pretense of tracing his lineage, instead occupying his time by studying Dark magic and methods in the Restricted Section while all eyes looked the other way.

Although, now that he had something from Minerva...

_"What's in a name? And why is yours so... different?"_

_"Mine? What about yours? Well, I guess Minerva really _isn't_ all that common. Mum said I was named after someone she was always rather fond of..."_

It was the first he had ever really heard about her life. She'd been brief, but Tom was a focused listener and an even better note-taker, regardless of whether he had a quill and parchment or just his memory to rely on. She made no mention of her father and hardly remarked upon her two brothers, though it was indicated that the boys were magical and would soon be attending Hogwarts. What little she spoke of her mother was in soft, almost sad tones, and it seemed to him that Minerva pitied the witch, though Tom could only guess as to why. By continuing his research with this new inspiration, he figured that he would shed some new light on that and other details soon enough.

·

**May 1943**

A scream rang shrill through the corridors of Hogwarts, and though some had become gravely accustomed to the sound, everyone knew what it meant and wondered fearfully if they would be next.

The whispers and horror stories were music to Tom's ears. He strode about the castle as a dutiful prefect with a face full of worry, but inside he rollicked in his pride and joy. He was the cause of it all: the blood on the walls, the disappearing familiars, and last but not least, the dirty Muggle-borns that continuously piled up in the Hospital Wing. His only disappointment was that his pet had yet to succeed in ending their lives, but for now Petrification was punishment enough. And, gloriously, he'd found a scapegoat to be implemented at the right time. Things were going swimmingly.

Since March, Tom had set foot in the library again and, alongside studying Minerva's blood lines, he had searched furiously for his father's surname among the resources that were available. "Riddle" appeared nowhere, not even in the trophy cases or Hogwarts records (obvious places he had neglected to browse the first time around). He had no idea what his mother's name was or where to begin. He felt sick at the possibility that his father was a Muggle and his mother was a witch who had been weak enough to perish during his birth. To be only half magical... the idea brought the darkness back to him more swiftly than ever before.

Tom assuaged this perceived depravity by returning his attention to Minerva. Many books he perused made references to the Roman goddess of wisdom as well as her Greek counterpart, and although he'd foreseen this obstacle, it had been harder than he initially thought to actually track down the witch he presumed she'd been named for.

Eventually, Tom was able to come across various sources citing only three other witches in their region who bore the name Minerva. One had died as a teenager during a pandemic in the eighteenth century and the second had become widowed during the Great War and passed on no children; these two were hardly notable individuals. The third, one Minerva Heriot née Gray, a pureblooded witch who married into an equally pure family, had furnished a full life with three offspring who also went on to have families. A daughter, Abigail Heriot, married a wizard named Dillon Ross, taking his name and having a daughter of her own named Isobel. She would go on to bear a daughter named Minerva and two sons, Malcom and Robert, respectively.

The family tree stopped there. The only thing missing was the name of the father. If Minerva was not a Ross, then who had her mother married or, at the very least, shared her children with? He concentrated on the tree intently, figuring that while it was an obscure reference tucked away in a book about prominent families and figures from the last few centuries, it still retained some sort of magical properties to have updated itself so accurately over the years. He glanced at Minerva's aunt and uncle, whose branches were abundant with relatives. He could see that this was all the source of her power, but the source of her last name puzzled him still, until it hit him like a stray bolt of lightning.

"Not you, Minerva._ No_..." Tom was gripping the parchment so hard that his fingers nearly tore through it, his thoughts racing as fast as his pulse. Then, calmly and quietly, he rolled the records back up, in order, and got as far as placing them on the table in front of him. He sat heavily in his chair, contemplating this turn of events. He was aware that jumping to conclusions could put him in a bad spot, but in the bottom of his terribly twisted gut he knew that something was amiss with the one Gryffindor he had come to actually like and respect.

Disgruntled, Tom tucked these findings into the back of his mind for later analysis and confirmation. In the meantime, he would attempt to learn just who his mother was and if she or her death had been of any real consequence. For the first time since he could recall, Tom was nervous, almost frightened. Whatever it was that he found, he knew it would change the course of his life forever.


	11. The Tenth

Author's Note: I think I'm as happy with this chapter as I'll get. It's hard to update or even write at all when you have a demanding job, but I won't ever give up! :) As always, a special thanks to J.K. Rowling for being awesome and letting us borrow her characters for our own amusement. Enjoy!

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><p><strong>August 1944<strong>

Except for on two other major occasions in her life, Minerva had never faced such indecision as she did now.

The first of these events occurred when she was just a girl. Her mother and father had fought, something they rarely did, and their voices had become escalated, something that was even rarer. It brought Minerva running to their bedroom. She'd hidden behind the doorframe and listened to the last waves of her parents' heated disagreement. At the time she was too young to understand what the "Statute of Secrecy" and the "Ministry of Magic" were, but she knew they sounded important, and she knew that they had something to do with her and her dear mum.

Minerva had skittered down the hall when she heard her father leaving the room and then quietly slunk back, peering around the doorway to observe the shambles her mother was in.

"He's right..." she had whispered, tears falling so fast that Minerva couldn't count them if she wanted to. And for one terrifying moment the woman was wracked with sobs, clutching at herself and sliding to the floor to lay her head upon her knees in the comfort of her own arms. Even in that state Minerva thought she looked beautiful but simultaneously her heart broke at the sight.

Then the woman sobered and young Minerva saw her pull a long stick from the folds of her night robe, treating it gingerly as if it were another child. She stood and took a box big enough for a ring from the nightstand to her right and opened it, sighing heavily with loss.

Awestruck, Minerva watched as the stick was dropped vertically into the small black vessel, disappearing into nothing and nowhere. Her mother twisted an invisible knob like a key to lock it up and then deposited the box into the nightstand drawer from whence it came. Neither witch moved for a long time.

Minerva had struggled that night with whether to make her presence known or not. In the end the decision had been as easy and as difficult as turning and retreating to her own room. She would never tell what she had witnessed, but in her silence she grew to at least understand that the bond between a witch or wizard and the world they belonged to was not something easily severed, and that what her mother had done was a great feat, magical or Muggle aside. Even if at times it seemed like an unfair or a selfish choice, it was a choice that had brought about her family, and Minerva could not blame her mother for that.

The second time she came to such an impasse happened in her seventh year at Hogwarts. If it had been like picking a House during Sorting, or which elective to take over another, Minerva would have been relieved to know that those were the hardest things she would ever encounter at the school.

Instead she'd found herself forced to choose between turning tail or shoving Tom Riddle into the lake when he'd knelt before her upon its shores, spouting off about a new life and promises she knew he would never fulfill. Actually, Minerva had had the third option of laughing in his face, but all that he'd said had laid even her most sickened, most nervous chuckle to rest. Again she had chosen to walk away, fleeing to the security of the castle and the Gryffindor common room.

Now graduated and clean of it all, Minerva was tossing and turning at night at the thought of having to break things off with Dougal. At first her dreams were nothing more than anxious, causing her to wake without being able to fall back to sleep. Soon they became more physical, with her pushing Dougal from the cliff they'd first made love upon and she in turn falling from her bed, crashing to the floor in a sweaty, exhausted mess.

Though Minerva kept silent, Isobel could tell her daughter was troubled. The young witch had begun to look as disheartened as she must have felt, and her mother knew it had everything to do with the farmer's son. Minerva herself now moved through the house with an indifference she couldn't quite place, a fogginess in her brain that had seeped in and taken over. She was too tired to care. She was too tired to do much of anything.

Soon Minerva dreamt of Tom Riddle again, except this time she could feel him as close as if he were lying next to her, breathing on her neck. In her slumber he was kind, kissing the back of her hand and leading her into what she could only guess were the dark depths of the Hogwarts lake. Strangely enough, she did not protest and was absolutely enchanted, almost delighted, to be following him to her death. The last thing she remembered was Tom twisting his head around owllike, and where his eyes should have been there was nothing to behold. She'd parted her lips dreamily to remark upon it when the freezing waters filled her entirely, pulling her down to join him.

In the waking world, it was as if someone was reaching their cold hands into her chest and squeezing her lungs to dust. She bolted upright and frantically fought against the sensation of being drowned. Tears of effort splashed her night clothes and through blurry vision she saw the window was shut, but much closer to her than the door. If only she could get to it...

Desperately she stumbled from the bed and across the room on all fours, losing coherency as each second passed, dragging her failing body to the sill. Minerva heaved herself upward and pushed, but the panes would not budge. They were visibly unlocked, and with an angry rasp she shoved with all her might, but to no avail.

She felt her heart would burst with disappointment as she tried and tried to open the window. The room seemed to be shrinking, as if all the oxygen were being siphoned out, and her vision began to narrow. Without a voice she cried out for breath, and then, using the last ounce of strength she possessed, Minerva wrought her arms through the glass. Cool air rushed in and around her head, destroying the vacuum that her room had become. Greedily she choked it down, paying no mind to her wounds or the shards that littered the floor.

Robert burst in then, his mouth more agape than his daughter had ever seen it. He rushed forward and helped her onto the bed, using her sheets to try and staunch the bleeding. She would have screamed if it weren't for the others in the house.

Minerva and her father spent many minutes picking the largest pieces of glass from each cut in her arms. More than once she had to resist pulling out her wand and treating the lacerations herself. This was one Muggle hardship she never meant to underestimate, nor would she ever again.

Without an explanation they left the manse, taking the small car lent to her father by the church. They made it into town just as the sun breached the horizon. The ride was bumpy and Minerva's crudely wrapped arms stung in the morning air.

Upon arrival, the physician on-call ushered them in and back into a sterile room. He did not ask what had lead to her injuries but instead worked silently, donning only gloves and a large magnifier in order to see every last sliver of glass embedded in her skin. The process was long and painful but Minerva uttered not a sound. She was lucky, the doctor said. The cuts were deep, but not so to need stitching up. Oddly enough, it appeared as though they had already begun to heal.

Only when they were on the return trip did Robert inquire as to her state of mind.

"I was dreaming. I couldn't breathe. It felt... so _real_." Minerva watched all that they passed as they drove up the road. Her reflection in the glass was unrecognizable. She looked and felt like a ghost.

"If you're angry with me —"

"No!" She turned her head so hard that stars exploded before her tired eyes. "No. It was a _dream_. But... I was awake, or so I thought. I felt like I was being smothered. I needed air and I couldn't reach the door. The window was unlocked but for some reason it wouldn't open. I must have... pushed too hard..." The look on his face was indicative of mingling doubt and worry. "Don't you believe me?" There was no reply. She stopped herself seconds short of throwing up her arms in exasperation.

Isobel was waiting at the door and while Robert went upstairs to clean up, she sat Minerva down at the kitchen table and spoke to her quietly.

"What is going on?" The question was soft but Minerva couldn't stop the surge of irritation she felt that moment.

"You already know. At least, you look at me like you do." Her mother's face was sad as she looked upon her daughter's injuries. One thing Minerva was grateful for was that her expression did not contain pity.

"I know you love him. But I know you wouldn't hurt yourself like this for anyone." Minerva rolled her eyes.

"Da seems to think so."

"Your father thinks you're mad at _him_. You're not, are you?" The young with shook her head. Then she was bringing up the dream, describing it in great detail and hoping that her mother could lend some sort of insight. Magical dreams must be different, she thought. Perhaps, as a witch, she could feel them in a way Muggles couldn't. She really had no idea. Except for in Divination, a class she'd always deemed silly and useless, dreams weren't discussed too much in depth at school.

Minerva didn't like the look her mother's face was taking on. As she listened Isobel became grave, and Minerva could see her mind working, though none of it seemed to be all too good.

"This... Tom Riddle. What was he like? And what happened between you two?" The hairs on the back of Minerva's neck stood at attention. There was a furious energy surrounding them, similar to one that she'd felt seconds before a duel or a highly anticipated Quidditch match.

"Well, he was brilliant, to say the least. It was like magic came easier to him than even some of our professors. He told me once that he wanted to change the world. Being a Slytherin, though... I think his intentions got all mucked up along the way. I suppose he fancied me, at some point. I turned him down. He and I have very different ideas about life and the world." Her voice deadpanned at the memory of his proposal and all the times he'd tried to talk to her about his views. For a moment she became nauseous, the taste of gritty lake water suddenly apparent in her mouth.

"Perhaps his intentions weren't entirely true from the beginning." Minerva could agree with that. Still, Isobel appeared even more distressed as the conversation continued. "What did he know about you?"

"Academically, almost everything. We shared a few classes since we met and often studied together. Personally... next to nothing. He was pretty unwilling to give up anything about himself, so I chose to do the same."

"Are you certain?" Minerva nodded. "Tell me."

"Yes, I'm _sure_. Mum... what is it?" Isobel was lost in thought for a moment before addressing her daughter once more. Her face was so serious that she looked as though she'd aged ten years in the ten minutes they'd been talking.

"It would seem Tom Riddle has not taken your refusal lightly. Did they teach you about Legilimency in school?" Her gut hardened to stone while she nodded, lessons and instances flooding back to her all at once. The words languished between them and that morning the chickens went hungry.

Minerva found herself unable to sleep later, not only from the pain in her arms but also the lingering shadows that threatened her mind. She read, wrote, and watched for the rising sun, all to distract herself from the possibility that Tom Riddle was able to scrape her mind and reach for her from the unknown. Around seven she washed up and made herself something to eat before taking a stroll up the drive to wait for the postman. One of the dogs saw fit to follow but it comforted her little.

It had been almost a week since she'd seen or heard from Dougal, though the time that passed had given her room to think about her father's request and the life in London she was supposed to be looking forward to. A hole began growing where her heart resided while the gap between summer and fall was quickly closing. Minerva heaved a sigh and rubbed her eyes against the morning sun. Love had found her here, in the most unlikely of places. If she were to give it up, would she be able to find it again?

"Lassie?" The voice had come out of nowhere, and Minerva realized the man in front of her must have been trying to get her attention for a minute or so. Drowsily she regarded him and he handed her the mail, tipping his hat and smiling awkwardly before departing. She would have at least thanked him but a letter on top of the sparse paper pile immediately consumed her. Within seconds the envelope was breached and she was reading what it had to say, unable to control the emotions that washed over her.

_My dearest Minerva,_

_ I apologize for my recent absence. I think of you every day but I regret to say that I can't leave the farm right now._

_ Something strange is happening. The livestock have all gotten sick, one by one, and already some of the cattle have died. No vet within thirty miles can give us an answer and my Pa is pulling his hair out over it all. The worst part is that they're suffering and there's not a damn thing we can do to help them. Not only that, but our hounds are gone. Dead, all of them, tortured in some way or another. I can't even begin to imagine who would do such a thing. It makes my blood boil._

_ If I haven't lost your faith, write me back as soon as you can. But please don't come by the farm. I want you to be safe. When I'm able, I'll come to you._

_ Yours, Dougal_

Minerva barely finished reading when the letter fell from her hand and she dropped to her knees, vomiting her breakfast into the grass.


End file.
